The Mixed Tape
by XWaltzforVenusX
Summary: A series of unrelated one-shots set to the lyrics of different songs. Multiple timelines, mostly RT, but some other pairings and focuses. Previously known as the one-shot 'Testosterone'.
1. Testosterone

_**Hello all!**_

_**This used to be the one-shot called 'Testosterone', but I got inspired to write other one-shots like it, and decided to bundle them all together.**_

_**So this is now 'The Mixed Tape', a collection of fics written to the lyrics of songs. Each chapter is a different song, with a different focus, and a different style of writing.**_

_**

* * *

**_

Song: 'Testosterone' by Bush, off the album 'Sixteen Stone'

Focus: Ryan and Taylor

Timeline: Seasons 1, 3, 4 and post-4

* * *

**I'm a man, I'm real proud of my manhood**

"I am not doing that." Ryan crossed his arms over his chest defensively.

"Look, Ryan, you have to. Because I already signed us up, and we can't back out of it." Taylor's eyes were pleading as she looked at him.

"What, in all of our relationship, made you think that I would ever be ok with this… this public display of humiliation?" Ryan gestured down at the costume on the bed.

"I know you don't like dancing," Ryan snorted, but Taylor ignored that. "I know you don't like dancing, but it's for charity. Plus, you'll really enjoy my salsa costume." She raised her eyebrows suggestively.

"That's great. You can wear it for me, then. But I will not salsa dance. No way." That was that.

_**

* * *

**_

I like to smoke ten thousand cigarillos

"Excuse me? Hi." Taylor Townsend clasped her hands in front of her and stood, waiting for a reply.

"What do you want?" the boy shot back at her.

"You can't do that here. There's no smoking on school property." She motioned at his cigarette. He took it out of his mouth, looked at it appraisingly, then stuck it back between his lips. The light at the end burned brightly against the dark of the night.

"What are you, the police?" He took a huge drag and blew it out in her general direction. Taylor's mouth went wide at his audacity.

"No, but I could report you," she hissed, indignant. This boy had only been at Harbor for a week, and already he was causing trouble.

"It's not even school hours," he rolled his eyes.

"But it's a school dance, which still makes it official school hours. Look, I really don't want you to get into trouble. I'm trying to do you a favor." She smoothed down her pink plaid skirt, not sure how to deal with him.

He took one last, hard, drag before throwing it to the ground and snuffing it out. He held the breath in for much longer than Taylor thought healthy – not that smoking was healthy to begin with – and then let it out in a huge sigh. "God, I hate this place." He seemed to be talking to himself. Then he started walking towards the door that led into the gym, which happened to be situated behind her. He stopped when he got close to her. "By the way," he rumbled in her ear, his body very close. "I don't need any favors."

She was frozen to the spot, staring straight ahead and not at him: half afraid, half excited. She had never met anyone like him before. He wore a leather jacket, for crying out loud. He stood there, mere centimeters between them, for a few more seconds, his eyes following the curve of her neck and down to the top of her dress. He finally smirked, then went back inside.

When he was gone, she stumbled back against the wall, and pressed a palm to her pounding heart. No. She had definitely never met anyone like him.

_**

* * *

**_

Eight ball, I could climb any mountain

Ryan was good at containing excitement, but Taylor was not. She jumped up, squealing, and hugged him tightly. His face showed no emotion, but his eyes were mocking. Taylor let go of him, and he positioned himself again. Another perfect shot. Taylor was jumping and clapping her hands together. The men on the other side of the table did not look happy. They threw money down onto the green of the table, and walked away. Ryan picked it up casually, and pushed the bills into his shirt pocket.

"Anyone else?" he asked the bar, taking a sip of his beer. The other patrons eyed him warily, but didn't challenge him: they had seen the game. Ryan nodded, and then raised his glass, toasting them. Then he slung an arm around the still-grinning Taylor.

"That was so hot," she curled herself against him, whispering into his chest.

"It was nothing," he shrugged, still smug.

"Of course it was!" She looked up at him, and he smiled down at her. "The way you defended my honor?" she batted her eyelashes playfully like a damsel in distress. "I'm definitely going to be paying you back for that," she smiled suggestively. He shrugged again as she raised herself up to kiss him.

"Well then, I hope more creepy guys challenge me in a game of pool over you."

_**

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**_

I never cry, I only bawl when I'm losing

"Atwood cried?" Summer was skeptical. Ryan never cried, or showed any other emotion for that matter. Except maybe anger.

"I did not cry," Ryan growled, hitting Seth in the shoulder. The smaller boy grimaced and rubbed the spot. "I just got angry at being beaten."

"No, man, you cried." Seth backed away as Ryan went to hit him again.

"Who cried?" Taylor walked into the pool house, looking overly cheerful in a yellow sun dress.

"Atwood, apparently," Summer gave a little shrug.

"Ryan? You cried?" Taylor looked happy. "Does this mean you actually have emotions now?" Seth laughed.

"No…" Ryan started, but Seth cut him off.

"We were playing this massive, nine hour long, video game tournament, and he lost," Seth was hiding behind Summer now. "He threw the controller through a window, and then cried." Summer screeched and stepped aside as Ryan moved towards them, leaving Seth totally unprotected.

"I am going to kill you."

"Ryan! That's so sweet!" Taylor squealed. "Now when we watch sad movies, you won't have to worry about looking weak! You can cry now!" She clapped her hands excitedly.

"I am soooo going to kill you," Ryan laughed cruelly as Seth began to run.

_**

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And I've never been wrong, never been wrong

Taylor looked out of the window angrily. She could barely see the trees lining the streets through the darkness. Ryan drove on stubbornly. Ten minutes passed.

"Would you just call Sandy and Kirstin?" Taylor waved her arms in frustration.

"No, because we're not lost," Ryan muttered through clenched teeth, hands gripping the steering wheel harder.

"I'm pretty sure we've driven past that weird gnome about seven times," Taylor pointed to the lawn ornament in question.

"Well, maybe seven different people all bought the same gnome."

Taylor sighed. He was hopeless.

_**

* * *

**_

And I'm looking so good, looking so good

Ryan turned to see himself better in the mirror. He had to admit, Taylor knew what she was doing. She had decided that his wardrobe was in serious need of a makeover, and had bought him a whole mess of clothes. The wife beaters, though, he could keep. He looked sexy in them, she said. He had to admit he looked really good.

"Wow." Taylor's voice was appreciative. She sauntered into the pool house towards him.

"Yeah. Not too bad. You ready to go?" He wasn't particularly looking forward to this party, but she had wanted to go.

"In a little," she mumbled, smoothing her hands over his chest. "I think I might have my way with you first."

Ryan's eyebrows shot up. "Yeah. That sounds… that sounds awesome." These new clothes were great.

_**

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Got a big gold gun, got a big gold bullet

Bullit looked at the young couple walking through the door. "You two look fantastic!" he cried, putting his arm around Taylor's shoulder. She gave a wary glance at Ryan, who could only smile sadly and shake his head. "I re-arranged the tables, so you two are sitting over there now."

"Didn't Kirsten do the seating?" Taylor questioned looking around at all the new decorations.

"Well, she did, but I didn't really like it. So I decided to change some things around. I hope blondie doesn't mind." The two teenagers smiled, knowing she would. "I just figured that since this was my rifle club event, I should have final say." He gave them both little gun hand gestures before walking away.

"I find it a little scary that he owns guns. I mean, he calls himself 'The Bullit'," Ryan whispered to Taylor, linking their arms.

"Bang," she whispered back, and followed him inside.

_**

* * *

**_

And I guess you could say I'm real full of it

"Say it," Ryan commanded, voice stern.

"Fine," she rolled her eyes. "You're the king."

Ryan smiled and turned back to the game. "Good. Now, let's play again so I can royally beat you." Taylor made a whining noise in the back of her throat, but it did no good. She had agreed to 'Ryan Fun Day' which included a lot of playing video games, jogging, eating, and sex. She didn't mind doing these things, but he was just so damn smug sometimes when he was winning.

_**

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I'm real straight

"I can't believe I don't get to see you till Christmas!"

"I know," Ryan said sadly. "But we can talk on the phone all the time. And there's always e-mail."

"You have to send me pictures. I want to see all the new people in your life, so I can make judgments, and make sure you're not replacing me."

Ryan laughed, "I could never replace you." The two stood in silence, not knowing what else to say.

"Are you two done?" Taylor and Summer stood at the end of the driveway, arms crossed, waiting.

Ryan and Seth nodded quickly, blinking away tears. The summer was over, and they had to go back to different parts of the country.

"You guys are so gay," Kaitlin rolled her eyes, and walked back into the Berkeley house where her mother and brother were. Taylor and Summer nodded in agreement.

_**

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You _**wanna**__** see my peccadilloes**_

"Wow…" Taylor breathed over the file. She shouldn't be doing this, but damn it, she had to. Ryan had been admitted back into Harbor, and now he was trying to get Marissa back in. That couldn't happen. Not because Taylor didn't want her back – she knew she could never replace the worshipped Marissa Cooper – but because her mother and Jack – Dean Hess – didn't want her. So the Dean had 'accidentally' left the key to the discipline records on his desk.

Ryan's file was… impressive. Fights, underage drinking, grand theft auto; the boy was a walking misdemeanor. She had no idea. She scanned his school file as well. Good grades, great testing percentile, taking college level math classes. She wondered why he didn't use his potential, because the boy definitely had some. He was smart, loyal, and really hot. Maybe someday when he realized life didn't have to be all about drama, he could become something amazing.

_**

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**_

Hot dog, 7:30 in the morning

"How can you eat that?" Taylor made a disgusted face. Ryan shrugged, and continued to wolf down the hot dog. It was 7:30, and Taylor had woken up to the smell of cooked pig. Of course, the smell made her sick this early in the morning, but Ryan didn't seem to mind it. She sighed.

One of the many perks of being Ryan Atwood's girlfriend.

_**

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And I'm big into war, big into war

"See, Seth, this is what you get when you mess with me," Ryan punched a few more buttons before Seth threw up his hands in defeat.

"How did you do that? Where did all my minions go? They should've been blocking me…"

"Look, I'm not gonna give you any pointers, but your defense sucks." Ryan dug his hand into the bowl of chips and shoved the handful into his mouth.

On the couch behind them, Taylor and Summer rolled their eyes.

_**

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**_

I am a whore, I am a whore, _**I**__** am a whore**_

He collapsed on top of her. After a couple seconds, he groaned and rolled off. "Sorry, didn't mean to crush you." Taylor gave him a lazy smile, closing her eyes.

"You are too easy sometimes," she whispered it to herself, but he heard.

Sitting up, he asked, "what?" Taylor's eyes opened warily.

"Nothing, go to sleep." She tried to roll into him again, but he stopped her.

"No, seriously. What was that?"

Taylor sighed dramatically. "What were we doing before we had sex?" She raised an eyebrow as he thought about it for a second.

"We were fighting about you pushing me to see my dad."

"And what happened when you started to win the argument?"

"You… jumped me." Ryan looked down on her, realization dawning.

"See, Atwood. You're too easy." She grinned, and snuggled up next to him as he sunk down into the bed.

"God, I'm such a whore," he muttered.

_**

* * *

**_

I shave with Gillette, shave with Gillette

For some reason she loved watching him shave. It was just so… male. She would sit on his bed and watch him through the bathroom's open door. She loved watching him drag the razor across his jugular. It gave her a little thrill. Oh, did she mention he usually did this shirtless? Yeah.

"Taylor, it gets really weird when you stare." He talked at her through the mirror.

"Sorry, I just like to watch," she crossed her legs and leaned back, resting her weight on her arms.

"I got that." He resumed shaving, not looking at her again.

"Does it really make you that uncomfortable?" She got up and came to lean on the bathroom door frame. He shrugged.

"Sometimes."

"Sorry. I'll try not to do it anymore. I can't make any promises," she held up her hands guiltily, "but I'll try."

He rinsed off the razor, and wiped off the excess shave cream. She walked to the counter and picked up the razor. "Gillette, the best a man can get," she sing-songed quietly, and he laughed.

_**

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**_

And I'm patting my back, patting my back

Taylor was in a daze. Her whole world was hazy, her senses dulled. She took laborious breaths, trying to breathe against her exhaustion. It felt like she had blown a fuse in her head.

Ryan lay next to her on his side, head propped up on his hand. He smiled smugly at Taylor, who was naked on her back next to him. "Taylor…" he chorused, "you in there?" She made no response, and he congratulated himself for another job well done. Now all he had to do was wait until she came back to full consciousness so that she could return the favor.

_**

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Got a big gold gun, got a big gold bullet

"Go ahead, you can hold it," Bullit roared, clapping Ryan on the back. Ryan reached down and picked up the gun. He had held them before, but he never really noticed how heavy they were. His eyes ran over the exquisite piece. Nothing in Chino had ever been like this. "Like her?" Bullit broke in. "She's a classic." Ryan nodded admiringly. It was beautiful.

Taylor stood next to him, a little nervous. Was it good to give a gun to an ex-car thief slash cage fighter from Chino? Not that she didn't trust Ryan completely, but she knew that temptation was hard to fight. She was relieved when he put it back down, and only said "nice."

When they had left Bullits office, he was quiet. "What's up?" she asked.

"It just felt a little weird holding a gun again." That sentence scared her. "I mean, we used to have one. Back in Chino, I mean. Actually, it was Trey's, but I still held it for him sometimes. Then he got caught with it when we stole that car… and then Marissa shot him…" he was silent for a few more seconds as they walked. "I just never realized how… cold and heavy they were."

Taylor didn't know what to say, so she just hugged his arm, and walked with him out into the bright morning sunshine.

_

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_

Review!


	2. Cigarettes, Wedding Bands

___**In case you didn't read this from the first chapter:**_

_**This used to be the one-shot called 'Testosterone', but I got inspired to write other one-shots like it, and decided to bundle them all together.**_

_**So this is now 'The Mixed Tape', a collection of fics written to the lyrics of songs. Each chapter is a different song, with a different focus, and a different style of writing.**_

* * *

_Song: 'Cigarettes, Wedding Bands' by Band of Horses off the album 'Cease to Begin'._

_Focus: Ryan's life, pre-Cohens_

_Timeline: Pre-season 1 up through the Pilot._

* * *

**Working man's day wage, just piss it away**

"Oh, that's just perfect," mom rages, pacing the kitchen, waving her cigarette.

"It's my fucking money," dad shoots back, already half drunk, already angry, already reaching for a fifth can off the six-pack.

"Well, that's great, Frank," mom quiets her voice when she sees Ryan, peeking around the corner from the living room, "but don't you think we could've bought something more appropriate than beer?"

"Like what?" Dad's voice gets low, too, and Ryan recognizes it and fear shoots through his chest.

"I don't know," mom sighs, taking a drag of her cigarette, "food?"

Ryan tries to signal behind dad's back, but mom doesn't notice. He waves his arms frantically, mouths a warning, jumps up and down silently. But she doesn't notice, and Ryan stops trying. It's too late anyway; dad's already angry.

It's too late.

* * *

**Leaves it out in the weather**

"Damn it!" Trey yells, throwing the bike down, making Ryan wince with the harsh sound of metal grating on concrete. "What the fuck, Ryan?"

"It's your bike," he tries to argue lamely, ducking his head in submission. He knows he shouldn't argue; it'll just make Trey angrier. He doesn't flinch when Trey grabs the front of his shirt, twisting it harshly and bringing their faces close.

"You're gonna fucking pay for a new bike," he warns, and Ryan can hear Arturo and Eddie talking off to the side. They're not really paying attention, but both Ryan and Trey know they can hear. "Got it?"

Ryan looks up at his big brother and sees the desperation. Trey isn't really angry; it's not Ryan's fault. It's mom's new boyfriend's fault – bastard took Trey's bike to the 7-11 and didn't put it back in the garage. But Trey's out a bike, and he has a reputation to think of. "Yeah," Ryan agrees and Trey relaxes.

"Good," Trey makes himself sound nonchalant, grabbing the handles of Ryan's bike. "I'm taking yours, you can have the rusted piece of shit," he nods to his own bike on the ground – ruined by the overnight rain.

Ryan watches as Arturo and Eddie get on their bikes and start down the street, Trey a beat behind. His brother shoots him one last look over his shoulder – apologetic, determined, ashamed – before following.

* * *

**Failure, he said, times two breeds contempt**

"Seriously?" mom rages, the car swerving over the yellow line and back. Trey folds his arms and lets his chin drop to his chest – reluctant to speak. Ryan turns to look out the window as they leave school, the rest of the student body filing back in. If he turns his head farther, he can see Mrs. Diaz's car behind them. He knows that somewhere behind that is Eddie's mom's car. "Trey, Ryan." Mom's voice makes him turn back, and he can't see her face from the back seat, but he can see her hand – white-knuckled – on the steering wheel.

"I don't care what Karin thinks," Trey grumbles, "we didn't do it."

"Don't call your principal 'Karin'," mom hisses. "And don't give me that shit. They _saw_ you come out of the bathroom with the lighter."

"You can't trust janitors."

"That's it," mom sighs, and Ryan can hear the defeat in her voice. "You're both grounded. No bikes, no TV, no friends. You're done."

"I didn't do anything," Ryan protests lowly, almost to himself. He knows it won't make a difference. Mom's convinced he's involved, and he can't tell her Trey dragged him into it, because that'll give Trey up. It doesn't matter that she already _knows_ it was Trey. Ryan can't betray his big brother. He's sure there's a code about that sort of thing.

Next to him, Trey glares, and Ryan knows not to speak again. He watches his brother turn back to mom. "I still maintain the toilet lit itself on fire."

* * *

**Wash your hands of it forever**

"We're moving."

"Moving?" Trey questions, staring at the boxes collected in the living room.

"To Chino," mom says, lighting her cigarette with a shaking hand.

"Where's Chino?" Ryan questions. "Where's dad?" Trey mutters something and hits his arm. He doesn't know why. He doesn't know where dad went. The cops were here yesterday, and mom kept crying, but he doesn't know where dad is.

"Your dad's gone," mom inhales sharply, closing her eyes. "And we're leaving. I'm done with this place."

Ryan looks around at his house, but it doesn't look like a home anymore. It just looks like an empty building filled with boxes.

"But where's Chino?"

* * *

**Violence, it ripped through the old dogwood fence**

"Really?" Theresa giggles, hands behind her back, and Ryan grins, stalking after her.

"Really," he nods, holding out Pandsy. She frowns, then nods.

"On three." They count off and on three, he tosses her stuffed Panda to her. She catches it, but doesn't give him back his CD. He narrows his eyes at her and she grins triumphantly, letting out a squeal when he launches himself forward. There's a struggle, breathless screams and broken giggles, and he manages to pin her to the fence.

Her skin contrasts against the white wood and her hair smells like lavender as he leans forward and kisses her.

She's not his first kiss, but she's the first one he's actually liked. She's pretty and she's funny and she doesn't seem to care that he doesn't like talking.

"God damn it, Theresa!"

Ryan feels hands grab the back of his shirt, and suddenly he's not kissing her, he's being hurled against the fence. The ground is hard, but the wood is harder, and he knows the bruise on his head will hurt for a while. He looks up to see Theresa arguing with her brother, hitting him on the arm, the head, as he tries to fend her off. Eventually she storms back into the house, and Ryan stands up. Arturo turns to him angrily, shoving him back roughly, and now he's going to have a bruise on his back too.

"Stay the fuck away from my sister," he grunts, and Ryan ducks his head, glancing up through his hair at the departing backs of Arturo and his gang.

* * *

**See the hope, see it unravel**

Ryan doesn't know what happened. One day dad's there, the next he's… gone. The worst part is, Ryan doesn't care. Maybe now they can be happy. Him, Trey, and mom. They can start over. No more dad, no more drinking, no more hitting. They can start over, in a new town, and they can be happy, and they won't have to live in fear of being beaten.

It's weird; Ryan's never felt like this. It's taken a couple months, but he's finally put a name to the emotion.

Hope.

He walks into his house, where Trey's standing in the kitchen, legs braced apart, arms folded over his chest. He wonders what's going on, but then he sees him: some guy standing with his arm around mom's waist, just like dad's used to be.

"Ryan," she greets with a smile, but she doesn't look happy. "This is Hank."

"Hey little guy," Hank smiles, and it's the same smile dad used to have. Mom says something about getting ready and leaves the kitchen for her room.

"Are you my new dad?" Ryan asks, looking at the man who is different but so horrifyingly familiar.

The guy laughs, and Ryan backs up because it's a mean laugh. "No, I'm just the guy fucking your mom." Ryan's not sure what that means, but Trey makes a strangled noise, launching forward and swinging his fists at the man, who laughs again. He lands one solid hit to the side of Trey's head, and Ryan watches his brother stumble back. "Jesus, I hate kids," the man mumbles. "Dawn, you ready?" his voice goes loud, and mom emerges from her room.

She doesn't notice Trey's anger or Ryan's tears. Hank puts his hand around mom's waist and they walk out the door.

So much for happy.

* * *

**Drunk brother said he could reason with them**

"Don't worry," Trey slurs as he pats his brother on the shoulder. "I'll handle this."

Ryan knows he can't, but he crouches behind the couch and watches his big brother – his savior – stumble toward mom and dad. He doesn't want Trey to go – he stole some of dad's beer and he's drunk, and so are they. When dad's drunk…

"Fucking whore," dad rages, hand tight around the bottle of cheap beer. "I know you were with that Artie guy."

"Artie's just a coworker, Frank," mom yells back, lighting her cigarette with a shaking hand. "Stop being such a paranoid asshole."

"Dad," Trey's reached the kitchen, Ryan can see, looking over the top of the sofa. "Mom was at Mrs. Paton's…" Ryan shuts his eyes tightly as dad backhands Trey, and there's a thump and a choked cry from mom, but dad's yelling again.

"Did I fucking ask you?" Trey tries to stand, but falls again. "Are you drunk? Have you been drinking my shit?"

Ryan buries his head into the cushions as mom cries and Trey begs and dad curses. It doesn't make the noise go away.

**

* * *

**

The picture was left on the front porch, the back said '_**I love you, don't you ever think of me**_**?'**

Ryan grabs the envelope, blood rushing to his face. Trey smirks again before heading out the door with Eddie. When they're gone, Ryan opens the letter.

But it's not a letter. It's a picture, of him and her in the tire swing Arturo put up last summer, just before she started dating Dominic.

He heard she and Dom just broke up.

He turns the picture over in his hands to find her writing on the back, all curvy lines and bright blue ink.

_Do you ever think of me? Because I think of you._

_xoxo Theresa_

He wonders if he should give her a second chance; _she_ was the one who broke it off last time. Not that they'd really been dating, but this is a matter of pride.

He decides that pride is definitely not as important as sex.

**

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**

If my body goes, then to hell with my soul, we don't even know the difference

"You have to be more careful," Mrs. Diaz scolds, pressing the cloth to his knee, making it sting. It hurts, but he doesn't let it show, because Theresa's watching, and he wants to impress her. It's his first week in Chino, and already he's made a fool of himself. He just _had_ to go and try that trick on his bike that Trey showed him. And he'd ended up skinning his knee and his neighbor had taken him inside to see to his cut.

Outside the bathroom, Theresa stands, watching him curiously. He blushes, looking down at the floor as Mrs. Diaz stands up. "You need to be more careful," she tells him again, and he shrugs.

"Why?"

"Because," she sounds shocked, "God gave you this body, and you have to take care of it."

He looks up, but stares at the wall. "Dad says there is no God. What's the point in being careful?" He really doesn't understand. If this life's all he gets, why waste it? But he seems to have said something wrong, because Mrs. Diaz crosses herself, eyes going towards the ceiling.

"I think you need to come to Sunday Mass with us."

He doesn't know what that is, but Theresa looks excited to have a new friend, so he shrugs and agrees.

**

* * *

**

The dead folks in the clouds, for crying out loud

"Where'd grandpa go?" Ryan stares at the open casket, crinkling his forehead. Grandpa looks like he's sleeping, but when Ryan had tried to wake him up nothing had happened. Then mom had gotten all weird, pulling him away and telling him to stop.

"Grandpa's dead," Trey's voice cuts in, deadpan and bored. Ryan doesn't understand.

"But where'd he _go_?" Mom puts a shaky hand to her forehead and dad grunts in annoyance.

"See, honey," mom starts, sniffling a little, "when good people die, they go to heaven."

"Oh," Ryan doesn't stop being confused. "Where's heaven? Can I visit?"

"Well," mom begins, looking unsure. Maybe she doesn't know where heaven is? "Heaven's up there," she points to the ceiling. Grandpa's upstairs? "Whenever you look up and see clouds? That's where grandpa is. He's up there with everyone else, and he's having a great time, and he's looking down on you to make sure you're ok. But you can't visit him until you get older, ok?"

Ryan nods, because dad's looking angry, and mom's about to cry again. He just isn't sure how someone can be in the clouds, and also down here lying in a box.

"That's such bullshit," dad grumbles, shifting in his seat, and mom starts to cry.

"Leave it alone, Frank," she orders, putting her arm around Ryan's shoulders.

"No, I don't want my son growing up believing in that shit. People in clouds? Ryan, your grandpa is dead. He's gone and he's not coming back. You'll never see him again, so you might as well get over it." Dad sits back in his chair, looking at his watch and sighing.

"Jesus, Frank," mom whispers, but dad just rolls his eyes.

"Can we go to McDonalds after this?" Trey asks, kicking his feet against his chair, and mom begins to cry harder. Ryan shuts his mouth and looks at grandpa. He looks like he's sleeping.

Maybe he should try and wake him up again?

**

* * *

**

The house is not the same since we left it that day

He walks through the yard – the familiar yard with its familiar collection of crap – up to the door – the familiar door with its normal battered screen – through the living room – the familiar living room with its usual beat up couch, dirty rug.

Except the couch isn't there. The rug is – stained and smelling of cigarettes and booze – but the couch isn't. The table isn't either. The old TV isn't. The microwave, the desk, the clock, the lamps. Just… gone. Everything's gone except a note on the counter and that damn carpet.

He picks it up – the note, written in lipstick on a paper towel. He reads it; reads it then puts it in his pocket. He walks out of the house – over the same carpet, out the same door, through the same yard he's walked the past eight years of his life. Except this time it feels different. Because the furniture's gone. Because Trey doesn't live here anymore. Because mom doesn't live here anymore.

Because they don't live here anymore, and – apparently - neither does he.

**

* * *

**

Old friends seem to wonder

"I can't," Theresa whispers, and he knows she's looking over her shoulder to make sure her mother isn't listening.

"Why not?" he asks, already knowing the reason.

"You got arrested!" her voice rises, then lowers back down to a whisper. "Mom won't let you."

"So just hide me under your bed for a few days till I find a better place," he argues. "And how can she shut me out?" he continues, anger rising. "Turo steals cars all the time!"

"But she doesn't know that. I can't, Ryan. I'm sorry." She hangs up, and he grips the payphone tightly for a second before slamming it back into the cradle. He digs into his pocket for more change, but he's out of options. His hand hits a piece of paper, and he pulls that out along with the coins.

_Sandy Cohen. Public defender._

**

* * *

**

Our parents had cigarettes, wedding bands

"I can't do this anymore, Frank."

Ryan presses his back against the wall, tilting his head to hear around the corner. Mom's in the kitchen on the phone with dad, and she sounds tired. He still hasn't figured out where dad went, but he hasn't been around for nearly a month. Maybe he doesn't know they moved? Maybe he's in Fresno looking for them. He waits for mom to tell him they're in Chino now.

"I sent the divorce papers," he hears her whisper. Divorce? Mom had said dad was gone, but he thought she meant on a trip… "_'How did it get to this'_?" her voice rises sharply, angrily, "Frank, haven't you been paying attention? All we do is fight. The only reason we stayed together this long was cause of the boys. The only reason we got married was cause I was pregnant. The only reason we ever met in the first place is cause you needed a lighter."

Ryan feels the guilt well up in him. Mom and dad have been so unhappy because they stayed together, and they stayed together because of him. If they hadn't stayed together, mom never would've gotten beat. If they hadn't stayed together, dad never would've gone to jail. If they hadn't stayed together, he never would've been born, and that's ok with him. He hears mom sigh.

"The only things keeping us together were these damn rings and our cigarettes."

She hangs up and Ryan goes back to his room.

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	3. Gravity

_**So I've decided that 'The Mixed Tape' is basically going to be my little pet series. I'm not sure many people are too interested in it, but I get inspired to write these little song drabbles, so I'm posting them anyway. Especially because I've been off work for two days, and I get really bored and restless when I have nothing to do... hence the amount of updates...**_

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Song: 'Gravity (Sunday Music Mix)' by Sara Bareilles & Sonos off the album 'Sunday Music, Volume 1'

_Focus: Ryan and Taylor_

_Timeline: Post season 4 – college years_

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Something always brings me back to you, it never takes too long.

He has a problem, he decides.

It's with relationships, see. He's good at the kissing and the touching and all things physical. He can even handle the emotional stuff sometimes. And he's definitely good at the breakups; he's had a lot of practice.

The problem, he knows, is the _letting go_ thing.

It's happened before. Theresa, Marissa. They had a way of coming back to him, over and over again – like a boomerang he kept hurling away, that came around to hit him in the back of the head as he tried to walk away. It took a baby for Theresa to stop coming around. It took death to stop Marissa.

He wonders what it will take to stop Taylor.

She's his boomerang now. Every September he throws her away and every December she comes back at him like a blur, like a punch to the stomach that knocks him back and takes his breath away. And then she's gone again, back to France, and he thinks she's finally spent; she's finally out of his system. Then May comes and she's back. It's not healthy.

He has a problem, he decides.

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No matter what I say or do I'll still feel you here 'til the moment I'm gone.

He rolls over and tries to find a comfortable position but ends up staring at the ceiling.

It's white.

Which he finds slightly comforting, actually, because it reminds him of the pool house ceiling. Although, he supposes _all_ ceilings look like this, but he's most familiar with the pool house one, from long nights of staring up at it, trying to sort out his problems.

He stares up at the ceiling and lets it wipe his mind blank, lets it whitewash his brain.

He's sick of not being able to sleep, in this new place, this new bed, with some random boy five feet away and snoring loudly. Seth snored, the few times he'd fallen asleep on the pool house floor. He remembers Seth snored. _Snores_. Present tense, he thinks, because Seth _still_ snores, even if he's doing it on the other side of the country - even if he's annoying someone else with the persistent racket.

He misses comfort.

His bed feels hard and cold and the ceiling isn't _his_ ceiling, and the mattress isn't _his_ mattress, and he hates it here. He doesn't hate it in the daytime, though. Just at night, when he has the time to stop and think.

Thinking doesn't work for him. When he actually gets to think, it never leads to anything good. Just memories that won't die. Won't go away. Like the one he's ignoring now; the one lying on the bed next to him.

He turns his head slightly, where the vague outline of her rests on her back and stares up at the ceiling with him.

He turns back and tries to let the ceiling wipe his mind blank.

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You hold me without touch, you keep me without chains.

Seth once teased him about the hold she has on him. His brother had made some joke about being whipped, but he's not. _Whipped_ implies a conscious thought to keep him in line, a determination to keep him with her.

But there's not.

Even after two years, she still has a hold on him, without even knowing it, without even being around. He doubts she knows that she's in his dreams more than he'd like. That he still has fantasies about her. That he wonders how she's doing.

She doesn't do it on purpose, she doesn't _try_, but she still manages to keep him thinking about her with alarming frequency.

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I never wanted anything so much than to drown in your love and not feel your rain.

"I just want you to be happy," she tells him, the train rumbling underneath them, the quiet roar almost soothing in its endless noise.

He wants to tell her that he _is_ happy, right now, right here, with her in his arms. But there's a world outside, full of scary words like _future_ and _responsibility_, and he knows he can't stay in this sleeper car with her curled up next to him forever. He's not sure how happy he'll be at college, with her in a different country, but she seems to think it'll be better for them.

She wants him to be happy, even if it's not with her.

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You loved me 'cause I'm fragile, when I thought that I was strong.

He loves how she tries to act like nothing bothers her. She calls him on the phone and talks about her day, and pretends she's perfectly fine with this arrangement. Because he knows, even if she tries to hide it, that underneath all her bravado is a lost little girl.

It's what made him fall for her in the first place.

He'd ignored her problem at first, because she was Taylor Townsend, and if anyone could handle themselves, it was her. But then he'd seen it, the flash of weakness, and he'd finally recognized her for what she was: human.

And it had made him pay attention.

Because she was human just like him - she was weak and she was breakable - but she never let it stop her.

And he loves her for reminding him that he can't let it stop him, either.

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But you touch me for a little while and all my fragile strength is gone.

He watches as she get off the plane, staccato steps quick and determined as she makes her way over to Summer. He watches them hug, their exclamations loud and high-pitched in his ears, and next to him Seth cringes. He watches as she pulls away and turns to Seth, throwing her arms around the clearly uncomfortable boy. He watches as Seth pats her on the back, as if he's unsure how a hug works. He watches a she lets go and turns to face him.

"Ryan!" She's bright and cheerful, no trace of anger or hurt or regret. No trace of everything that's currently running through _him_ right now. But he's good at pretending, too.

"Taylor," he greets back and lets her move forward to hug him. He doesn't want to hug her, but he doesn't want to stop her, because that's admitting it. They're both pretending like nothing's wrong; like this greeting is the same as the one she gave Seth.

But it's not. Her arms slide around him and she buries her face into his neck, and he feels her take a deep breath. Against his will – against his better judgment – he wraps his arms around her waist, lets his lips drop to the top of her head, lets his senses fill with her as he closes his eyes. He's not sure how long they stand like that, in the middle of the airport with people walking and talking and rushing around them, but he can't hear anything.

But he _can_ hear the child that starts to scream less than three feet away from them, and it snaps him back to reality. It snaps her back as well, and she drops her hands from his neck, placing them on his chest to push him away - like it's _him_ that won't let go, like it's _him_ that initiated this in the first place.

And when she's away, he sees the anger and hurt and regret, and he hates himself. Then her mask is back, even if it's shaky, and she turns to Seth and Summer, who look at them with pity, and he hates them too. And he hates her for pretending like everything's ok, when it's clearly not.

Because he has to spend every day with her for the next three months before she packs up and leaves him again.

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Set me free, leave me be. I don't want to fall another moment into your gravity.

"We can't keep doing this," she whispers to him and he shuts his eyes like that will make everything go away. She sits up and gets off the bed and he opens his eyes to watch the moonlight reflect off her pale skin, and he remembers when she used to be tan, when her hair used to have more blonde in it. "This is the last time."

He sits up and watches her gather her clothes, her movements filled with shame, and he wishes he could control himself better, because it would be so much easier if they _could_ stop doing this. But he knows he can't, he knows that the next time he's alone with her, the same thing will happen unless she stops it.

He knows she won't.

So he doesn't say anything, just watches her grab her purse and leave the room, and he hears the hotel room door open and shut, and he shuts his eyes and falls back into the mattress.

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Here I am and I stand so tall, just the way I'm supposed to be. But you're on to me and all over me.

He hasn't seen her in over three months.

They left on good terms: as friends. And she came back the same way: on good terms. As friends. He hasn't seen her in over three months, since he got off the train and watched it pull away. And now it's Chrismukkah, and he thinks that at least he has the rush of the holiday to distract him from the fact that he still loves her.

He acts like he doesn't, though.

Except he remembers that didn't work out so well the last time, at Julie's almost wedding, when they both pretended they stopped caring. But this time they're trying to be friends. They can't just pretend not to care at all, which actually makes it easier. It's harder to pretend not to care at all then to pretend to care a little.

Even though he cares a lot.

But he can't help thinking, as they stand in the kitchen of the Berkeley house - with all their family and friends walking around and talking and celebrating - that she sees right through him. Because even though he's talking to Seth and Frank, and she's across the room talking to Bullit and Sandy, she keeps looking at him curiously.

He leaves the kitchen, because he can't handle that anymore. It's unnerving, the way she can look right through him, like he's transparent, like his emotions are right below the surface where she can read them. So he leaves the kitchen, passing Summer and Kaitlin in some heated debate about recycling, and goes upstairs to the guest room.

She follows him up and doesn't say a word before she kisses him.

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I live here on my knees as I try to make you see that you're everything I think I need, here on the ground.

She shakes her head, unable to explain. He folds his arms, unable to understand.

He's not sure what this conversation is even about. Well, technically it's a fight, but they haven't been yelling for at least four minutes, so he decides it's a conversation now. He wonders how this all started.

He had asked her why she kept doing this. Leaving him. Why she kept going back to France. Why she kept coming back. He asked her if he was just a way to pass the time during vacations.

Well, he didn't so much _ask_, as he had _yelled_, which made her yell back - something about not being that shallow - and he'd replied – _yelled, _whatever – that yes, she was. Because she _had_ to be using him, right? Why else would she keep jerking him around like this, even when she knew she didn't want him? Because he's not good enough for her. He knows he's not.

She shakes her head, unable to explain, and he wonders what she _wants_ to explain. He guesses she wants to tell him all the reasons she doesn't want to be with him. She takes a deep breath and picks up her luggage before looking at him. He hates that luggage.

"You don't get it, do you?" she whispers, almost brokenly, almost like she cares. But she doesn't care. How can she? She keeps leaving. But the way she's looking at him, like she still feels something for him, makes him angry. Because he knows, somehow, somewhere in the back of his mind, that she's all he needs. And the way she's looking at him, like she feels the same way – like he's all _she_ needs – makes him angry. Because she keeps leaving.

She shakes her head, unable to explain. He folds his arms, not _willing_ to understand.

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But you're neither friend nor foe, though I can't seem to let you go.

They aren't good at being friends.

They never _were_ friends, back… _before_. They were barely acquaintances, friend-of-a-friends, someone to nod to in the hall between classes.

They aren't good at being friends.

When they were together he remembers being able to talk to her, being able to sit on the couch and watch movies with her in silence. He remembers being able to just be around her without this awkward tension, without the desire to leave the room. He remembers sometimes feeling closer to her than to Seth, because she could read him better than anyone else ever had. He remembers the way he could just stand there and have her know exactly what he was thinking. He remembers how she used to be his best friend.

But they aren't good at being _just_ friends.

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The one thing that I still know is that you're keeping me down

He thinks she's happy.

It's not till Summer mentions – by accident, in passing – that she hates France, that he realizes she's not. He thought she was happy when she left him. She always wanted to leave the country, to immerse herself in some other culture, in a set of people that liked the same things she did. God knows he didn't. They had nothing in common.

So he asks Summer, if she's unhappy, why did she go? Why does she stay? She could go anywhere she wants. Why stay there for the past three years?

And it's not until Summer answers – hesitantly, warily – that he realizes he's not happy either. Summer tells him she left – she stays – because of him. Because she doesn't want to get in his way. She doesn't want to mess up his college experience. His future.

She doesn't want to hold him down.

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Something always brings me back to you, it never takes too long

He wonders how long they can keep doing this.

College is almost over; he can't keep planning his life around her. Because, for the past four years, he's done just that. Because, for the past four years, he knew she came home for winter and summer breaks. Because, for the past four years, he's dumped whatever current girlfriend he's had, and waits for her plane to land. He tells himself he does it for other reasons: the girl's too clingy, too annoying, too stupid, too picky, too tall, too skinny, too rich, too self-absorbed. He tells himself it's _not_ because they're not _her_.

He wonders how long they can keep doing this.

Because college is almost over, and they haven't talked at all about it. He looks over at her, to where she's curled up next to him, sleeping peacefully, and he wonders what her plans are. He wonders if she'll stay in France, or if she'll come home for good. They don't talk about it, but there's only one semester left before she has to decide.

He wonders how long they can keep doing this, because they can't do this forever, and soon she'll need to decide whether she wants to be with him or not.

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